


Mosaic

by Hopetohell



Category: Extraction (2020)
Genre: Light Angst, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27992370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: It’s not a fight, not exactly. And it’s not training, either; it’s the pure, unadulterated, vicious joy of movement, of the swift and violent kiss of his fist along the edge of your jaw.
Relationships: Tyler Rake/Reader, Tyler Rake/You
Kudos: 4





	Mosaic

It’s not a fight, not exactly. And it’s not training, either; it’s the pure, unadulterated, vicious joy of movement, of the swift and violent kiss of his fist along the edge of your jaw. It’s the way you kick his legs out from under him, the way you pause for a moment above him, just long enough for the hot flush of blood below your skin to make itself insistently known. It’s the press of his hot, thick fingers up the inside of your thigh (dirty nails, callouses, blood and ichor and gunpowder etched permanently into the lines on his palm). 

And he is moving now to roll you under him; he’s flushed and sweaty, little beads of perspiration rolling down his face because it is hot here, it is humid, and once you stop moving it all comes down on you at once. So you keep moving. 

He rolls you under and you slither out; the scrape and scratch of rough boards will ruin what’s left of your clothes but it’s not like it matters. He’ll love to see you in his shirt later, watching the way your legs descend from the hem, thighs shiny because he loves to see the evidence of your coupling all over you. He knows a permanent mark is out of the question; even the wrong sort of bruise is a bad idea, but damn if he doesn’t feel that primal urge to mark and claim, to write _mine_ in neon letters. But he can’t, so he doesn’t, and instead he smears you in his fluids and if he can’t put his mark on you he will put it in his memory of you, to keep him warm when you’ve gone. 

But anyway. 

_I am going—_ he’s got you by the ankle, drags your body back and under him again as he’s scrabbling for purchase on your flesh—

_I am going— fuck, goddammit—_ as he’s lifting and pressing and Jesus he’s strong; he’s got you propped against the wall with his hands under your ass like it’s nothing, but there’s that little tight line between his brows that speaks to wounds not quite healed. Not like he minds much, anyway. 

_If I don’t fuck you right through this wall it’ll be a day wasted_ and he does, somehow, bursting through in a shower of lath and plaster, dust raining down around you as he’s driving into you in short, sharp jerks. 

_You’ll call me when it’s over?_ But it’s not much of a job, a little museum with some paintings that need liberating. It’s not like it’s a big job, not like you won’t be on a plane home before supper. He’s strange now, with a death wish that doesn’t suit him, that hangs from his shoulders like an ill-cut suit. He asks after you but leaves himself in the wind, watching you in his shirt, in his colors, and he wishes just once that he could mark you up properly. 

_Come with me. I could use someone like you_ is what you tell him, but the part that goes unsaid, the _I can’t bear to watch you kill yourself,_ is what he hears, and it pulls him further into you, further into the way you fit together so goddamned perfectly, the shards of you both fitting into a strange mosaic. 

But. 

When he says _let me be selfish,_ he means _let me have you, own you, claim you._

When you say it, you mean _please don’t make me bury you._


End file.
